The Light in Your Eyes
by OrangePlum
Summary: He was in the bathroom when America was shot. US/UK or platonic. Whatever you guys feel up for.


_Author's Notes:_

Just a drabble. Don't mind me. This is on my tumblr, too. If ya'll wanna see, it's on my profile.

* * *

He was in the bathroom when America was shot.

In a neighborhood like this, in a sandwich shop like this, with people like _those,_ it was nearly impossible to predict the outcome of a gun rearing its ugly head.

When England had left his – now what would he call his relationship with America this afternoon – ah, yes. When he had left his companion, intent on relieving himself while the boy found them a seat, he never would have guessed that when he stepped out of the facilities that America would be stumbling back into flimsy tables, hand soaked red with that ghastly look in his eyes while people started shouting and shrieking and falling over themselves just to get away or help or do Heaven knows what.

God, _he_ was the one who wanted to shout.

An altercation over child support and custody. A stupid argument in the line ahead of them had no need for violence, let alone to be discussed in a deli in a delightfully charming neighborhood America was showing him in a small town in New England.

"Somebody call an ambulance, I can't get the bleeding to – hey, hey, buddy. Just sit down and breathe, okay? We're gonna get you some help," a man frantically reassured, taking what little charge there was and bracing America from behind.

The ambulance sentence caught England's attention, finally allowing him to move from his dumbstruck spot by the men's restroom.

"I'll call," he offered quickly, whipping out his phone and pretending to dial. The last thing they needed was an ambulance and – Jesus Christ, a _hospital_.

Accosting a situation that seemed very trivial in the grand scheme of things had been America's intention. To soothe and calm, only relying on the fact that he knew his people better than anyone, so, naturally, he would know what to say. He could somehow help snuff the anger in the taller man with a rough exterior.

Two pops at the urinal had made England jolt, eyes turned curiously at the door. He'd heard America get shot while taking a piss at the _fucking urinal_.

"What happened?" England urgently demanded, forgoing the phone and kneeling down to where America was being supported against some stools. Green eyes rapidly scanned the pinched face of – well, of the most important person on the top of his list of important people.

"Someone tickled me too hard," America said on what appeared to be an attempt at laughter. England saw no humor in it and ignored the joke. "What do you think happened, Eng- Arthur? Someone shot me."

"I can bloody well see that, Alfred," England hissed, pushing aside the few hands meant to put pressure on the wound, glaring at the bystanders who flinched away, utterly clueless. He pressed skilled hands with the right amount of pressure to America's abdomen.

"That guy just pulled out a gun," interrupted the man holding America's shoulders. "He pointed it at that lady," he pointed to a sobbing, small woman in the corner, "but this guy pushed her away in time."

England pursed his lips, heart hammering against his rib cage and beating at his temples with a distracting force. _Of course_.

"You're a real hero, kid," the man said in a hushed tone, gripping America tighter with a grateful squeeze.

"N-no problem," America wheezed, and when he smiled his teeth were painted red.

Not good. So very not good. England felt his adrenal gland switch into overdrive as he applied more pressure to the balled up shirt, not caring if it was the same shirt he had bought America that afternoon. Some things were more important than vanity.

Like keeping America's blood in his fucking veins. Shit, there was too much blood.

"You doing alright, Alfred?" England asked on a breath, eyes shooting up from the blood staining his nails. He had noticed with sickly realization how much paler and stiller America seemed to have gotten over the minutes.

"Where is that ambulance?" someone yelled over his shoulder.

"Been throu- b-been through worse," he muttered with a wet swallow. "How's it lookin'?" America asked as England narrowed his eyes and moved a hand under the shirt, following America's spine until he felt –

England stared in silent horror as his hand came away wet.

Exit wound.

"_Shit_," he hissed under his breath, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

"I take it bad?"

England took a calming inhale before furrowing his brows and scowling at America. "Nothing a Band-aid won't cure."

America laughed, or it could've been a sigh. What the hell would England know?

America was silent a moment, nothing but the wet sound of his breathing reassuring England that he was still there – that he was still there with him. It was only when America touched his hand with his own that England managed to peer up, frown pulling at his lips when seeing the tired look adjourning the younger nation's face.

"Dark room, Arthur."

England stared, mind blanking for a long moment, in which he heard nothing but the sound of America's voice and breaths. There was panic behind him with running people, rubbernecking cars outside of the window, wails of a siren streets away, but England only heard America.

And then it clicked.

As nations, immortal beings, there was no death. Pain, torture, anguish, yes. But death? It was not a concept they could relate to. But there was something that gave a little light on the subject, and for that the code "dark room" was conjured. It was the same process as death – no heartbeat, no breathing, no consciousness – all the essentials for a human death; however, after a period of time later (it varied from twenty minutes to an entire day for some) the light would come back and they would recover just fine.

The dark room was a blessing.

The dark room was a curse.

England shook his head slowly, then, more firmly.

"Stay right here with me, Alfred. No leaving. Keep looking into my eyes, because I swear to _God,_ if they close–"

"Did… d-did you call an ambulance?" America choked, and England felt his world slipping away.

The sirens were louder now and America was starting to move less and less. Lord, how England hated the dark room. It was temporary and possibly nothing like death, they never knew, remembered only darkness, but no, no, _no_, he did not want America going there.

Though he would not admit it aloud, every time America died, so did a little bit of England.

"Be right back…"

And then the light drifted from those two blue eyes and left nothing but a glassy mockery of the life that they usually carried. England mechanically moved back on his haunches, hands sliding away from America as paramedics flooded through the doors, moving around him and checking America's vitals, though no sound came from their moving lips.

As England watched, all he could think about were ambulances.

They were such a pain.

* * *

When England opened the door to the hospital room, he had expected to see America sleeping; however, he was met with a grin brimming with joy as blue eyes zipped away from the comedy on the television.

"Yo, England! You bring me something to eat?"

Of course America would ask about food. He hadn't gotten his bloody sandwich from that deli, after all.

England cautiously entered the room, shutting the door behind him and extending a bag of McDonalds to the starved blonde in the hospital fatigues. He wore an opened robe draped over his shoulders, and from this angle in the chair beside the bed, England could see a perfect view of the bandages surely containing stitches against his bare skin.

"Lifesaver, dude," America said with a mouthful of fries.

_Hm, yes. I did a very good job at that_, England thought grimly with a dry smile.

"How was your morning?" he asked politely, though he was impossibly distracted with the thoughts jumbling around his head.

"Just woke up about an hour ago. Starving as hell, but the nurses wouldn't give me more than two trays of food. Stingy bitches," he muttered under his breath. America swallowed and took a swig from his coke when he paused and blinked, cocking his head to the side and looking at England's face closer.

"You okay? You look kinda, I don't know, unhappy or something."

England frowned and casually in retaliation poked America's stomach. He winced and sharply swallowed his bite, recoiling from the Briton's touch.

"Ouch! What was that for–"

"'_Be right back_'? Did you seriously just say that to me?" England said thickly, feeling like a balloon was smothering in his chest and making it hard to breathe right. America stared a minute, looking away awkwardly and shifting in his blankets.

"Oh, you remember that, huh?" he smiled, unsure, nose crinkling as he dared another glance at England, which made him hesitate. There was something so broken and angry behind England's eyes, dangerously close to being considered moist, that America didn't say anything.

"Don't you ever say that to me again, America. I swear, sometimes I can't believe how – You don't say things like that when you're–" England huffed and ran his hands roughly over his face and through his hair, taking a large breath as he glared at the wall. "You are lucky they 'revived' you quite fast or you'd have had some explaining to do in the morgue when you woke up."

America chose his words carefully. "Ambulances suck."

England nodded in agreement.

The television went to a commercial about some soft drink while America picked at the lint on his blanket. He chewed at his lip and took another sip of his soda, reaching out and taking England's hand in his own. The Briton seemed to think about something for a while before his fingers closed around America's, eyes glancing up when America leaned in and placed his forehead against the one beside him.

"I'm scared of the dark, England."

After a beat, and then, "Me, too."

England wrapped his arm around America's neck and buried his face in his shoulder, hugging the younger nation to him.

The dark room was a horrible place, but it was inevitable in a world filled with violence on every corner. He hated seeing the empty eyes of America after every assault, but couldn't possibly describe the feeling of relief and appreciation the moment the lights turned back on in his eyes. Without the darkness, he doubted he would know just how precious the light in America was.

For no matter how much he hated the dark, he always loved the light impossibly more.


End file.
